


Lose Your Soul

by LadyoftheSea



Series: Going a Little Mad [6]
Category: Batman (Comics), Batman (Movies - Nolan), Batman - All Media Types
Genre: (J is a bastard), Angst, Blood Kink, Catharsis, Clothed Sex, Confessions, Dark, Deep Throating, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, High Sex, Knifeplay, Manipulation, Masochism, Murder, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Overprotective Joker, Past Sexual Assault, Possessive Sex, Praise Kink, Recreational Drug Use, Revenge, Rough Oral Sex, Rough Sex, Sadism, Torture, Unhealthy Relationships, Unsafe Sex, Voice Kink, Wall Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-01
Updated: 2020-07-06
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:01:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 21,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24940516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyoftheSea/pseuds/LadyoftheSea
Summary: We all have skeletons in our closets we'd like to forget, old hurts we try to leave behind.But bygonesstayingbygones has never been the Joker's specialty, and soon, it won't be yours either.
Relationships: Joker (DCU)/Original Female Character(s), Joker (DCU)/Reader, Joker (DCU)/You, Joker/Original Female Character(s), Joker/Reader, Joker/You
Series: Going a Little Mad [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1595734
Comments: 66
Kudos: 157





	1. Monstrum

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Jasminau](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jasminau/gifts).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please be warned, this fic is crafted around the premise of Joker finding out some distressing information for our MC and develops the desire to "rectify" the situation for her. This information is rooted in sexual violence that happened in the past, and the Joker's never been one for peaceful resolutions. In short, this fic is about delayed retribution and vengeance - it will be violent and dark and twisted in addition to the depraved sexy-time stuff you've come to expect from me. I won't go into explicit detail and I will keep a lot of it vague when I can about the actual incident, but her distress will be highlighted even if I don't name everything. As always, mind the tags. If this has the potential to be distressing for you, I ask that you take care of yourself first and foremost and do what's best for you. ❤
> 
> This fic is dedicated to Jasminau, my dear friend and someone I adore, and to anyone else who needs some catharsis and fantasy-based vengeance for old hurts and wrongs. I also want to extend a big thank you to Rysama for requesting the praise kink and extra special attention being paid to J's scars - I hope this installment lives up to your request! The praise kink is coming in part 2 🥰

“The people who love us scratch us … And what is love, anyway? It's claw marks, scratches, scars, traces someone leaves inside of you.” 

Margarita Karapanou,  _ Rien ne va Plus,  _ trans. Karen Emmerich

* * *

You really think you’re going to kill Joker this time. 

OK, _maybe_ that’s an exaggeration, but, _God,_ he’s infuriating. 

Rage has never been a closer friend to you, this lingering simmer that boils your bones, bleaches them, erases everything you thought you were before. Day by day, little by little, something's growing in you, carving out the old and replacing you with someone you don't recognize. It's like how you thought of those photographs, comparing the before and after, but, this time, you feel it in your blood, in the sinew of your muscles, the marrow of your bones. 

And it's all his fucking fault. 

There's a term you learned a long time ago. It took you a while to remember, but now you think of it often. _Cognitive dissonance._ Or, as the dictionary reminded you, 'the state of having inconsistent thoughts, beliefs, or attitudes, especially as relating to behavioural decisions and attitude change'. Sometimes you feel sick, like you don't know _you_ anymore, like you're slipping away from yourself, lost some intangible thing that made you whole. What you thought made you complete. It's like he's finely cut down your middle, cracked open each rib and pulled it back, examining what makes you tick like a broken clock. But he's not trying to fix you, make you function better, keep any kind of rhythm. He's adding things and taking away others, turning you into something else. Something monstrous. 

And yet, you can’t tell if you’re truly upset about it, or if this was always an inevitable conclusion in your life he's sped along. 

He hasn't been around much in the last month. You’ve seen him twice in the past three weeks, and both were by accident. The first time was so he could grab a replacement pair of shoes, the others were blood-soaked with ruined soles flapping in the wind, and the second was to leave a small pile of crumpled cash on the counter before whisking himself away. He hasn’t spoken a word to you since that night—the one where he nearly broke you in half, tore apart something in you that you haven’t managed to put back together, the night that changed your world again. Your fingers absently trace the scar above your heart. 

Even now, you're not sure if you regret saying yes to him that night. You hadn't really thought about what it all would mean, the effect it would have, and you can't tell if you care for him or want to toss him from somewhere very high. Your whole body aches just thinking about it, what he did, how it felt afterward. But you'd be lying if you said the ache was only one of pain. He was gone when you woke up the morning after, and you could’ve sworn you hallucinated him wearing the unfinished sweater you were knitting. If it wasn’t for the fact that you found it in the nightstand drawer on his side of the bed three days later after you found the energy to sit up and get out of bed, he would've tried to convince you that was true. 

That’s a jarring thought. _His side of the bed._ Like you’re a conventional couple or something, with your own sets of habits and workarounds. You almost laugh. It suggests something more intimate, that you spend your nights together when, in reality, he’s gone most of the time and when he _does_ stay it’s only for a few hours a night, leaving you to wake up alone and cold. That morning in particular was rough. You could barely move, covered in swelling bruises and feeling strain in muscles you never knew you had, your holes aching and used. It hurt, badly. You knew what you were asking for, you did, but you thought he might’ve… Well, you’re not sure what you thought. You didn't expect care, you didn't expect thoughtfulness, but you're not sure why you're disappointed anyway. It isn’t just your body that hurt, though. That seed he's planted in you is taking root, flourishing into something bitter and harsh, its thorns piercing your skin and hooking deep. There's no getting rid of it now, and it confuses you as to why you don't want to try. 

Still. You’re angry, _furious._ Anger is real. Anger gives you a target. Anger makes _sense._ It's what you hold onto, what you let guide your mind. And, right now, it's telling you to find the nearest heavy object and throw it at his head. 

He’s back now, reclining on the couch, his jacket thrown over the La-Z-boy and his dirt and blood-soaked shoes strewn in the middle of the floor. You’re not familiar with what gunpowder smells like, but you’re pretty sure it’s identical to the overpowering miasma that came rolling in with him, that’s still clouding the air in some invisible fog. His tie is loose, eyes closed and his head thrown back against the couch, his greasy hair surely leaving an imprint on the blanket you made. He’s not sleeping, you know he’d be more sprawled out and his brows wouldn’t pinch together that way when he’s thinking hard about something. But what has you angry isn’t even related to what he did before, how he left you to heal alone, it’s how, when you smiled, tentatively excited that he came back like some simple-minded school girl and asked how he was that he proceeded to completely ignore you like you didn’t exist. He has this knack for being able to look in someone’s general direction without acknowledging them, like they’re not even a gnat worthy of a glance, something you’ve become intimately familiar with. You haven’t done anything. Quite the contrary, you’ll do just about anything he asks. No matter how much you try to delude yourself, you know who you're with, what he can do, and yet the thing that upsets you the most is him acting like an overgrown child. 

You've given up on trying to decipher what that says about you. 

You’re in the kitchen nursing a glass of wine, thinking about how to best approach the situation. Even this feels too domestic. Wrong. Maybe this is your biggest problem—that none of this feels right. You always feel like you’re on the edge of losing it, breaking, falling into some pit you have no hope of crawling out from, coming back to that glaring definition again. _Cognitive dissonance._ Contradicting yourself, giving him the high ground, bowing to him like a sapling in the wind while your mind reels and anger steels your heart. And yet you keen for him, need him, desire something so powerful that only he can give you; he needs to break you apart and put you back together, fill your cracks and gouges with blood and gold. It’s like your skin wants to find a new owner, your eyes failing to recognize yourself in the mirror, your own features foreign and strange. But then the contradiction comes again. All of that is true, and yet it is also true that you feel at home next to him, on the brink of metamorphosing, bloody transformation that promises truth on the other side. You hate him more for how he makes it worse, makes you question everything, makes madness so fucking _appealing_. 

Time away from him doesn’t help. It only serves to leave you uncertain, paranoid, detached. Joker’s becoming your one source of feeling… _anything_ , and that’s the terrifying outcome you never saw coming. You take another long swig of wine, hoping it’ll help. It doesn’t. 

_C’mon, think. Don’t just… take it._

But that’s what you’ve become good at, isn’t it? Taking what he has to give. 

_Today will be different._ You nod your head, determined. _I’ll make today different._

Leaning against the kitchen counter, the cool glass of wine in your hand pressed to your head, you struggle to think, to find a way to outsmart a madman. On the one hand, you’d like to shriek at him about why the hell he bothers to make a big _goddamn_ show about ‘who you belong to’ if he’s just going to go _fuck off_ and say nothing for weeks like you don’t matter at all. You imagine how great that would feel, getting that out of your system, unleashing the pent-up energy you don’t know what to do with otherwise. It’s the most satisfying option, but you know it’s shortsighted. It’d feel good for all of five minutes while he sat there and waited for you to finish so he could do his own special brand of retaliation that would likely leave you sorer and more bruised than the last time, and that’s if he didn’t decide to break something. 

_Definitely not a great scenario._

It’s thoughts like these that prompt every concerned family member’s voice to ring in your head, pull at your attention. They tell you to leave, how unhealthy and dangerous this all is. You don’t want to know what it says about you, either, that this doesn’t concern you like it did two months ago. 

_Nothing good._

Your cheeks burn, but it isn’t just because of the alcohol going to your head. 

As angry as you are, you also miss him. You felt foolish last time, how you just waited around barely wearing anything and counting the hours until he came back so you could have your fix, even if the payoff was so sweet. That’s what it’s become for you—like a hit of heroin (not that you really know what that feels like), and he’s the only source to ease that particular and powerful pang. It’s near insatiable. Nothing you do on your own satisfies you for long anymore. And you’ve tried _everything._ You have nothing but time staying here in the dilapidated apartment. Yes, you’ve cozied up the place, knitted enough sweaters and blankets and freaking doilies (you’re a little worried that you’re turning into your grandmother) to make you never want to touch knitting needles ever again, but there isn’t much else to occupy you than reading and masturbating like a goddamn teenager. 

That’s what he’s turned you into. A fucking horny teen after puberty. You want to kill him just for that. 

The alternative option might be a little underhanded. Well, you’re not sure if it can be considered that. Sure, it involves some guile and playing to his ego, but it’s rooted in truth, even if it is mortifying to think, never mind say aloud. 

_Maybe that’s why I’m mad. God, that makes it worse._

You want to wait in your room until he leaves so you can pack your things and take off for a bit, see how he likes _that_ , but you look through the kitchen entrance to watch him and the thought dies as soon as it was born. His feet are propped up on the coffee table, his filthy patchwork, argyle socks now dirtying the doily there, and seems like he’s reading from a notebook of some kind. He just has to sit there for you to want to go to him, straddle his lap, bury your face in his neck, feel his hands on you. 

_I hate him. I hate him, I hate him, I_ fucking _hate him._

But you know that’s not true. Not really. 

You down the rest of your wine and pour yourself another half glass and drink it in one go, your head swimming for a moment before you get your bearings. Being any kind of intoxicated around him is a bad idea, Halloween taught you that much, but your sense of pride and dignity tries to surface every once in a while and you don’t need anything else to make this harder. 

He doesn’t look up when you go to your room, and you stand in front of your makeshift closet, touching the soft sleeves of your shirts, the patterned fabrics. ‘Makeshift’ because the one built into the wall is full of moths and spiders and the door sticks. You might be brave (or stupid) enough to be with the Joker, but you _cannot_ handle the possibility of there being a spider in one of your shirts and you don’t know until you’re already wearing it and it decides to make an appearance. All the clothes that the Joker’s men brought from your apartment, few as they are, hang from an old display rack from a department store, but it does the trick. 

It’s early spring, but it’s still cold in the apartment. Cold enough that your single duvet often isn’t enough, and the main reason why you knitted all those blankets. The frigid moisture warps the walls, but you put on one of your summer dresses. It’s loose and knee-length, and you like the bright floral pattern and how it hangs on your frame. It’s also the kind you don’t wear a bra with, and you throw it on the bed when you unhook it and slide it from your arms. You try to make your hair look messy in that fancy way you see online (the more you think about that, the less sense it makes), but your hair seems to hang limp, your waves falling out of the style you attempted earlier this morning. Sighing, you’re unsure if this is even going to work or if he’s just going to make you feel humiliated because you had the audacity to _try,_ but you persist. 

_I feel so stupid,_ you think after you’ve done the best you can. Getting angry at him seems like the better option now that your cheeks are burning, but something warm builds in your stomach, coiling up your chest and resting in your throat. If he’s proven one thing since you’ve known him, it’s that he has an unlimited capacity for being nasty and cruel, and you don’t have the energy to hold against it for long before he makes you into a broken mess, so a more _positive_ approach might bear better fruit. 

_Or it might go horribly wrong._

You try to force that thought from your mind. 

Breathing hurts when you make your way to the living room, your chest getting tighter the closer you get, your lungs heavy with the smell of him. It’s like every part of him wants to fill each space he’s in, like some kind of noxious demon that occasionally takes the form of a man. Your throat feels like it’s closing by the time you’re standing in front of him, your legs shaking and you don’t know why, but you make yourself stay there even when his eyes never move from the notepad in front of him. 

You wait for a minute, maybe two, unmoving and your hands wringing themselves. Your fury is completely gone. It’s like he’s infected you already, put you under his spell. All you can think about is being close to him, having his heavy eyes resting on you, feeling his teeth against your neck, the rumble in his chest echoing in yours, his fiery touch breathing life into your veins and setting you on fire.

_I really am pathetic, aren’t I?_

“J?” you say, your voice quiet and timid, and you find that you hate that, too. He ignores you, raising his notebook higher. You manage to catch how one corner of his mouth twitches. “Can you look at me, please?” 

You think you might’ve pushed it too far from how he stiffens, his fingers gripping the paper tight. You hold your breath, waiting, hoping. It feels like an eternity, but he lowers the notebook and levels a glare on you that nearly knocks you off your feet. You swallow hard. 

“I… I missed you,” you breathe, giving him a small smile, encouraging whatever part of him it was that made him put on the sweater you’d made and hold you in bed, even if it was just for a short while, to grow in him instead of this radiating malevolence lapping against your skin like water rising with the tide. 

“Did you.” It’s not a question, his voice flat and dark. He’s not inviting further conversation, you know he isn’t, but you keep trying, even though what he did to you in the kitchen the last time he was like this is fresh in your head. 

“It… I feel like you’re angry with me,” you chuckle through your nose, your smile fading when his expression doesn’t change. He’s just glaring, his eyes boring into yours and faintly reminding you of how your cousin would burn ants with his magnifying glass on warm, sunny days when you were kids. 

He blinks, his lids heavy and drooped, and he slowly drags his eyes up and down your frame, the malice never leaving. “Hmm. _Strange_ , the things that, uh, go through that pretty head of yours, doll.” He throws the notebook to the floor and it lands with a hard _slap_. You don’t mean to jump, but you flinch like he tossed it at your head. He finally grins, but it’s baleful and mirthless. 

You struggle to catch your breath. “So you’re not?” you whisper as you force your shoulders to relax, for your hands to hang loosely at your sides. “You’re not angry?” 

His grin widens and a chill goes down your spine like his nail is there to carve a path in your skin. It’s not a pleasant feeling, and yet part of you craves it, feeds on the sensation. “Didn’t say tha- _t,_ did I?” 

Going back to your room isn’t much of an option. You’re certain he knows what you came over here for, you can see it in the quiet gleam of victory in his eyes, the ego-driven sense of satisfaction. Indecision racks you. Artifice won’t work, neither will denial—not when you’ve come out of your room looking like _this_ —but you don’t want to give in either, let him have yet another win over you.

 _He doesn’t feel any shame, so why should I?_

Slowly, you drop on your knees in front of him, your eyes never leaving his, your nails tracing small circles on his thigh. “Am I allowed to make you feel good?” You bite your lip, air catching in your throat as you try to find the words, an angle of reason that this isn’t you being weak, a trained toy. When he doesn’t answer, doesn’t even raise an eyebrow, you feel another change, a shift. You smile softly, bracing your arms on his knees to lean upward, your lips by his ear, just barely grazing the skin. “Please, Daddy?” you murmur, voice almost husky. 

He considers you for a moment, his eyes slowly tracing the outline of your face, lingering on your chest and how every breath deepens, the pauses of anticipation and anxiety. The image of him carving your chest open strikes you again, taking out every organ to examine it in his hands, looking for your soul so he can hold that, too. Mould it in his hands. Crush it in his fist. 

Joker leans forward, but you stay in place, your eyes locked on his, and his nose barely grazes your cheek. His throat rumbles as he takes a lock of your hair, rubbing it between the pads of his fingers. “And just, ah… _how_ do you plan on that, babygirl?” His hand skims across your throat, light enough so that the small hairs lining it stand, goosebumps erupting and rising to meet his touch. He follows the line of your collarbone, sliding his fingers from your shoulder down to your arm. You tremble, hot and cold with an aching fever that grows in your belly. “Are you drunk?” 

“No.”

That’s not entirely true. You feel drunk being next to him, breathing him in, being so close and yet so far away. Everything feels heavy and light, your head liberated from your shoulders but rolling away from you, everything out of focus apart from the way he stares, how warm he is, the tense muscles under your fingertips. 

“Mmm.” He draws back, his hands leaving you, and rests against the couch with his arms spread across the back of it. “Building up the courage for somethin’ _special?”_

He’s baiting you, gearing up to find that soft spot where he knows he can prod and leave you shame-faced. Humiliated. You force your breathing to even. 

“Is it so bad that I missed you?” Your fingers work their way up his thighs towards his groin, slow and easy. You’re waiting for a reaction, for him to tell you no. He’s silent, his legs spreading a little further for you to slide between them. “Is that not allowed?” 

His face is impassive, but you don’t miss how his jaw’s working back and forth. He’s thinking. Which won’t mean anything good for you. 

He pops his lips, his eyes skyward as he tongues his scars. “Alright.” He nods once, twice. His eyes drop down to yours, one brow raised in challenge. “Make me feel, ah… _good_ then, doll.”

You keep your chin high, unwilling to lose your momentum now. You’ll make him wish he didn’t ignore you for so long, and you grin, sly. His makeup is running down his neck in thin streaks, collecting at his temples. You’re still close, and you kiss his throat, just to the side of his Adam’s apple, placing another at the meeting point of his collarbones, a third at the corner of his jaw. Your hands move down his thighs, nails raking him through the fabric, and you press your chest against his as you nibble his earlobe, moaning lowly as you grind against him, your stomach pressed to his hardening cock. He doesn’t move his hands, but you can feel his arms spasming, itching with impulse. You pull back to kiss him, taking his ruined bottom lip between your teeth, pulling and biting. He’s starting to react more. He’s trying his best not to, but you know him better now. You can feel how his stomach tightens, see how his fingers twitch, feel the growl building in his chest, climbing up his throat. You squeeze him through his pants. 

“I really did miss you, you know,” you breathe against his cheek, mouth pressed against the uppermost curl of his right scar. “It was lonely with you gone.” Lying is never an option with him, but there’s nothing wrong with skirting the truth. You repeat your mantra—if he has no shame, neither should you. “It just… wasn’t the same.” You draw back, giving him a heavy look of significance, and he raises the other brow. Running your hand up and down his cock, a breathy chuckle escapes you. “I think _this_ missed me, too.” You hold his gaze for a moment longer before sliding back down to the floor until your face is level with his groin. Like some kind of succubus, your mouth waters, and you can’t find it in yourself to be angry about it, to even hate him. “What do you think?” you ask, using one finger to trace the underside of it, avoiding the tip, and you suppress a grin when his hips move forward just a little, his smarmy smile turned into something more sinister, but you still see his desire. 

He says nothing, daring you to keep going. Backing down isn’t an option. 

_Going back was never an option, either._

He likes it when you keep looking at him, you’ve come to realize. Especially when you’re like this—on your knees, bowing at his feet. And yet he’s the one waiting on you, expectant, eager. He’s trying not to show it, but he wants you. The last month must’ve felt just as long for him as it did for you. 

You run your hands down his flanks to his hips, fingers skimming along the inside seam of his slacks until you reach his belt. He’s silent still as you unbuckle it, the corner of his mouth twitching in a new way than before. It’s anticipation. He licks his lips, his eyes as heavy as if he was pressing down on your shoulders with his full weight. Barely doing more than shifting so you can open his fly and take him in your hand, something finally shows through his expression—he raises his chin, his breathing deepens, tongue running along the inside of his scars. 

Saying nothing, only allowing yourself a private moment to revel in the feeling of him pulsing in your hand, precum dotting the tip of his cock in small, pearlescent tears. His eyes are melted glass turned liquid, black mercury that have a separate life all onto themselves. They’re mesmerizing. Terrifying. Dangerous. All you want to do is stare at them, let them excoriate the depths of you, flay your skin, peel it from your body, poison your mind and decay your soul. 

Maybe there is a monster of some kind inside you, one that hungers for pain, for him. A hunger that you don’t think will ever be sated, but that doesn’t stop you from wanting to try. 

Slowly, you drag your tongue along his tip, spreading his cum down the shaft, your lips close to enveloping the head before you pull back. You let his cum collect on your lips, smacking them together as you would if you were applying lip gloss, and you give him a devilish smirk that’s sure to rival his own when he growls lowly, like an attack dog giving you a warning before pouncing, teeth bared and ready to eviscerate. It’s when you’re about to lower yourself for another pass that his hand buries itself in your hair close to your scalp, holding you in place. His eyes are sharp, menacing, and you lose some of your bravado. 

“Y’know what, I have a _better_ idea.” 

He isn’t smiling, deadly and impassive. You know he’s faster, stronger than you are, but he still surprises you when he’s off the couch and you’re in his place. He hasn’t let go of your hair, and he’s dragging you to the armrest of the couch, making the back of your neck drape over the side so your head hangs upside down. You try sitting up, but he shoves you down. You still, your breathing going ragged when he peels the straps of your dress over your shoulders with the care of a lover, an incongruous tenderness compared to what you know he's going to do, and exposes your breasts. He cups one in his hand, groaning as his cock rests against your cheek. This isn’t what you planned, how you thought he’d react. Perhaps that’s on you again, so easily tricking yourself into thinking anything about what he does is any semblance of predictable, safe, like you have any control at all. 

He twists a nipple and you gasp, attempting to sit up once more before he pushes you down again, raising a brow and tsking. “I thought this was about _me_ , hmm?” he tuts, wagging a finger. Maybe him being gone has made you stupid. You should’ve seen this coming, him turning all of this around, twisting your intentions. Your neck is craned as far back as it'll go, and his hand slides from your breast up your neck, caressing your jaw. "You ever do somethin' like this before, babygirl?" 

The grin on his face is positively diabolical, malicious. You swallow, and he presses his fingers into your cheeks, forcing your lips to purse. "No," you force out, calmer than expected. This is another game to him, one you didn't think about: how long he had to wait until you cracked, until he had you on your knees, at his mercy. 

He leans down until your eyes are level, and they take on the glimmer of condescension you've come to recognize as his default state. " _Oh,_ well—nothin' you're not already familiar with. It's just… taking me in your mouth, improving your, uh, _form_ a little. But don't you worry, Daddy'll help." 

His idea of _help_ is very different from yours, but you let him coax your head back, your spine arched so your breasts are pushed up on display, and he presses his thumb against your lips. You know what's about to happen, how it'll probably feel, but you can't help but feel your cunt getting wet. His cock was going to be in your mouth either way, and you find yourself eagerly parting your lips, your mouth wide. The angle you're at is strange. You can see his thighs, the corded muscles of them, the thick, blond hair—it's all upside down, seeming bigger for its proximity to you. 

You told him you liked it when he hurts you, how willing you are to take whatever he has to give, and it feels especially true now. This is just to get him off, and yet you're enthralled, possessed, desperate for him. 

_Don't think about it._

The tip of his cock rests against your chin and his balls hang just above your mouth. You strain upward, taking one between your lips. He's never said it outright, but he likes this, too. There must be something about having what would otherwise be hyper-sensitive at the mercy of your teeth, lavished with the sensation of having your tongue lapping it, his sweat coating your mouth and mixing with thick saliva, and your teeth gently nipping at the skin that does something for him, the threat of biting down at any minute. One hand squeezes your throat, and he's groaning above you, his hips pressing down to put more of it in your mouth. He allows you to reach up and squeeze the other before switching, taking that one in your mouth and sucking. He's stroking himself above you, small drops of cum dotting your chin and throat. 

You're not sure how long you do this for, feel the soft skin tightening with his arousal, but you find you don't mind. You nip a little harder, seeing how far you can push him, how much he'll hiss and growl before he's had enough. He's absently playing with one of your nipples, pushing it back and forth enough to stimulate the nerves, to make you shiver. Maybe it's because it's been a month and you haven't been able to properly get off without him, but there's a baser kind of pleasure to be found for you, rolling him in your mouth, sucking him in and wrapping your lips around him like you might be able to swallow them before you release and start the process again. His nails dig into your breast and you groan, his grip transferring to your neck as he pulls away. 

"Oh, _shh, shh,_ babygirl," he says when you whine. His cock is against your lips now, slick and warm. You open your mouth willingly, and he slips inside, his girth stretching your lips wide. He keeps going until he reaches the end of your tongue, and you struggle to accommodate him, to swallow the pooling saliva and remember how to breathe through your nose. He's rubbing your neck, cooing. “There we go, just like that.” He doesn't wait long, pushing himself in further when you relax, the length of his cock stuffing itself down your esophagus. You choke and gag, but he doesn't pull out, continuing instead to push himself in until his balls rest just above your nose. He squeezes your throat, moaning, “ _Good girl_. That’s it, _that's it_.”

Your hands fly up to grip his thighs, nails digging in until they draw blood. He doesn't pull out until you see black spots, and you choke on the thick globs of spit in your mouth, blocking your windpipe, and you cough violently, taking a gulp of air before he works himself back inside, holding you still as he fucks your throat. You try making sounds of protest, asking him to slow, but he's unrelenting, grunting with the force of his thrusts, your throat bulging as he squeezes it around himself. He laughs when you claw the back of his thighs. 

“Now, now—I thought you could, ah, _take it.”_

As if to emphasize his point, he pushes in deeper, and your back arches off the couch, struggling to find an angle where this isn't deeply uncomfortable. He's saying something else, but you can't hear him over the obscene sounds coming from your throat, from having him driving in and out of it like he would your cunt. His pace is punishing and, as always, he has an impeccable sense of timing—he squeezes your throat and fucks you until you think you're going to pass out, but at the exact moment your oxygen-starved lungs start to heave and you begin to lose consciousness, he pulls back and keeps his cock against your tongue as you breathe in greedily through your nose. It's you that sets the pace again, pushing him in to the hilt when the world's no longer going black. Over the sounds of you choking around his cock is him growling like a rabid wolf, building up to a moan. He sounds more unhinged than usual, and you wish you could see his eyes, if he looks as desperate to cum as he sounds. You force yourself to take more, to swallow around him even though it feels like he might reach your stomach. 

The only warming he gives about his climax is how he tenses his thighs, his thrusts turning shallow. You're still not prepared for the first gush of cum shooting right down your esophagus into your belly. It's a whole other sensation, something you can't control your body reacting against. Your legs draw up, trying to signal what you're feeling, and, for once, he listens. He pulls out of your throat and you gasp for air, but he isn't finished. He keeps the tip of his cock pressed against your tongue, gripping your jaw so it stays pried open as you cough, struggle to breathe through your nose. He's still cumming, thick streams of it cascading down your tongue, collecting in your mouth. It's salty and warm and bitter, but you're shocked to find you missed the taste of him, having his cum in your mouth. You still as he finishes, his moans turning into feral growls, savouring the thick heat coating your tongue. He keeps stroking himself, making sure every drop lands in your mouth, and as he starts to pull away, you surprise yourself (and him) again by catching his cock in your hand and raising yourself enough to take it back in, sucking out any traces that might be left. His hand is on the back of your head, holding you up as you finish, his softening cock sliding from between your lips. 

You don't swallow his thick load until you sit up and meet his eyes. Tears, a reaction from suppressing your gag reflex, stream down your cheeks, but you make a show out of drinking down his cum, wiping around your mouth for any escaped traces before sucking them from your finger. He's still close, out of breath, and he looks like he wants to throw you to the floor and fuck you until you break. You feel a sense of success despite him and his efforts for you to feel otherwise, even when you cough and realize he fucked your throat raw. You're not sure if you'll be able to talk properly for days. He seems to know this; he smirks, patting your cheek and turning the last one into a light slap.

" _Much_ better, babygirl. If I didn't know any better, I'd start to think you were practicing with someone else." He laughs when you try to form a rebuttal but cough instead. Tucking himself away in his pants and putting the zipper back in place, he crouches down to laugh in your face. "Oh, don't look so _glum._ I _know_ you didn't. Jeez. Can't take a _joke,_ can you?" His smile disappears, and that ever-present edge surfaces, that avaricious malevolence. His eyelids droop, his voice that bass rumble that resonates with your being. "You'll only have me inside of you, hmm? But, ah… _sometimes,_ it's good not to _bite off_ more than you can chew, and if you can't, uh, _handle_ having your throat being used like your cunt, you should present that one next time, hmm?" 

He bursts out cackling at your look of indignation, but he catches your arm when you try to slap him, your anger getting the better of you. But then he moves in closer, his chest so close to yours, and the malicious humour is replaced with that same desire you saw before. He's so close to you again, and you're overwhelmed by his warmth, by the burning need twisting you from the inside out, your head swimming with the heady taste of him and the wine in your system. He didn't touch you at all apart from your breast, and you think he might return the favour when he leans in, his lips finding yours and his tongue lapping the inside of your mouth. It's like he's chasing the residual traces of himself, licking the back of your teeth and sucking your tongue into his mouth to bite down until you moan. His hand skirts the side of your breast, promising to go lower, to sate the need dripping between your thighs, but as soon as his hand touches your knee, he's on his feet again, walking away from you. 

" _Stay,"_ he says over his shoulder when you try to get up to follow. You're too tired and physically unable to argue, and you hear him banging around the kitchen. 

Even though you weren't lying about missing him, you already feel drained just by being around him. He's come to be the only thing you look forward to and yet he's also what you dread most, what drains you. You clear your throat and wince, and you can feel the swelling with your fingers, the bruises forming that will adorn you for the coming weeks. You're desperate for water and hope that he's feeling beneficent enough to bring you a glass. 

_Not fucking likely._

You lean back on the couch after fixing your dress, closing your eyes and massaging your neck. It's a struggle thinking past the burning need between your legs, the desperate ache in your hole, the all-consuming desire for him to be inside you. Your hand wanders down but you force yourself to be patient, to wait. Who knows how long he's going to stay, but you need something to change, you need him to break you down and replenish you again, chip away at what makes this difficult. 

Whatever he’s doing, he’s making a racket in the kitchen. You’re almost tempted to go look, to see what havoc he’s unleashing, but you stay in place, unsure if it’s because you’re too sore or if it’s apathy finally taking hold of you. Distantly, you hear the sound of a kettle boiling. That alone is almost enough for you to get up and look, but once your eyes close, you have no intention of moving. You wonder if this is enough for things to be different after what happened last time, if whatever mental fit he was having is over now that he had the chance to vent out his frustration. But then that leads to the thought of what comes next, what this is all supposed to be, where this song and dance is going to lead. You always thought of him as a walking contradiction, and, right now, you don’t feel much different. 

_Cognitive dissonance again._

That really does seem to be the defining trait of your life now, defining you as contradiction defines him. 

_What a pair we make._

"Drink."

You start awake, not realizing you were so close to falling asleep. He’s leaning over you, his makeup still a mess, half smudged and half caked into his pores. He’s not wearing his vest anymore, his dress shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows. When your eyes wander down, you’re surprised to see he’s holding a mug of something steaming and warm. You’re almost lost in the urge to think this is a thoughtful gesture, some act born out of goodwill, him being decent for once in his infernal life. 

But this is _him._ In his month-long absence, you’ve come to doubt most of his kind gestures, those small glimmers of what you’d like to call humanity. Since when has he done anything for free, no fine print attached? 

"What is it?" you rasp, your voice almost completely gone. 

He rolls his eyes, mouth setting into a firm line. _"Drink,"_ he says, pushing the mug closer to your face, the hot contents threatening to splash over and pour right down the opening of your dress. 

You take it from him, more afraid of being burned than anything. It smells and looks like earl grey (which in itself is a surprise, you didn’t think of him as much of a tea person), but, just like everything with him, there must be more to this. He has a mug of his own and he throws himself down on the ratty couch next to you, all loose limbs and boneless—and yet he manages to not spill the contents of his drink anywhere. 

“Seriously, what’s in this?” you ask, clearing your throat. 

His eyes widen, his brows drawn up in the picture of innocence. “Are you suggesting I botched your tea, bunny? Can’t a guy do something _nice_ for his lady every, uh, once in a while?” He takes a long sip of his tea, slurping noisily. You barely suppress the swift and sudden urge to slap the mug out of his hand. You answer him with a glare. “It’s just tea and honey, _honey._ Don’t believe ol’ J? ‘Supposed to be good for, ah… _sore_ throats.” 

The madman giggles beside you, taken with just how goddamn funny he thinks he is. 

Your urge to throttle him before comes back swift and strong. If it didn’t hurt to talk, you’d tell him he can go right to hell, but then you look down at your mug again, breathe in the steam. The chance that he’s done something to this is high. But… 

_Does it really matter?_

You don’t think it does. You’ve already admitted it, being here by yourself has been taxing, mentally draining in a way you’ve never had to grapple with before. As cruel as he is, you miss him. Even with all the hell he puts you through, the bruises he leaves behind, all the hurts he never tries to remedy, that same thought comes back every time: being battered and broken doesn’t matter as long as it’s with him. 

With a lingering stare out of the corner of your eye, seeing how he’s watching you so intently, his mug raised to his lips—an almost funny image with his scars—you drink the tea, taking small sips at a time. 

"Good girl," he says, leaning further into the couch and stretching one arm out along the back of it so he can brush your hair with his fingers, entwine them in the tangled locks. "It'll help soon."

You almost scoff at that, and you roll your eyes—but that doesn’t stop you from leaning into his touch, enjoying how his nails gently scratch your scalp. "I don't think you know what help means." He laughs at that, and it’s as good as verbally admitting it’s true. You’re begrudged to admit he’s right, the tea is helping soothe your throat, and his hand in your hair works you into some kind of lull, your muscles loosening. 

It can’t have been more than twenty minutes since he brought you the tea, but you go to take another sip only to realize it’s gone. Joker’s in front of you before you finish blinking, taking both your mugs away. You feel warm, like the heat of the tea found its way into your veins, enlivening your muscles, making you light. 

“You alright there, babygirl?” a voice purrs in your ear. 

Your eyes must’ve closed again without you realizing, and you’re greeted with a vision of something bright—it’s like someone has a flashlight pointed at your face, burning your retinas. It takes a moment to adjust, but then you see Joker in front of you, a halo of black around his head, radiated by a kaleidoscope of white along the edges of your vision. His face looks… _different_ to you, more smooth—almost like blackened porcelain. 

“Yeah,” you say, suddenly out of breath, “I think so.” 

He smiles and it’s the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen. 

Something feels strange. Like your nerves are feeling everything as if for the first time, the remnants of the tea on your tongue more potent and strong. You can feel every fibre of your dress, each stitch and crease. He’s saying something in your ear, beside you and then behind and then in front of you. It’s disorienting at first, sounds more acute and sharp but far away at the same time. Distantly, you recognize remnants of what you’re feeling from what feels like a lifetime ago. 

_Halloween._

But there isn’t any terror to accompany it this time. You know where you are, who you’re with. There are no terrifying visions of being eaten alive, being hunted and torn apart. No, there’s only a new world of taste and touch—a world made of light. 

You feel good. 

_Better_ than good. 

_Is this what euphoria is like?_ Real _euphoria?_

J’s sitting next to you again, watching with amusement, his mouth curled into a Cheshire grin. You weren’t wrong that he’d done something to the tea, but you can’t find any emotion apart from humour. You feel bold, alive. Sliding over, you straddle his hips and wrap your arms around his neck. 

“Do you think you’ve ever gone more than fifteen minutes without trying to fuck with someone?” you ask, your voice still hoarse. It’s meant as a joke, a playful jab, your mouth spread wide in a smile. He seems to take it as one because he laughs. Even that feels different now, like you’re seeing it ripple out from him, the walls breathing with him in every inhale, chuckling with him when he exhales. 

“Nope,” he says, smirking. 

His scars seem different to you now. Just like his eyes, they take on a life of their own. You’re not sure if you can describe it, the closest thing you can compare it to is van Gogh’s paintings—like the ones you’ve seen in art museums. It’s like… the world’s spiralling in on itself, a never-ending loop of sand draining from a broken hourglass. 

“Is this real?” 

It’s another voice, echoing from the other side of the living room. So foreign and yet familiar. The more you look at his scars, the more you can feel their ridges under your tongue, the taste of them thick in your mouth. 

“Nothing’s real, babygirl.” His hand is in your hair again and your blood turns into a wave, drawing up from your toes and crashing up your throat, caught in a vicious tide. It takes your breath away when it recedes, your skin electrified when the pads of his fingers trail down your spine. “Just you and me.”

That feels true. It’s just been you and him here for so long. He’s become the only thing in your world that matters, your centre of gravity, the moon that controls your tides and storms. 

“Just us, huh?” You touch the collar of his shirt, shivering at how you can feel the fabric skim across each individual line of your fingerprint. 

“Just us.” 

The octagonal pattern of his shirt oscillates, a swirling pattern that multiplies until you think you can reach out and touch them.

“Are you seeing this, too?”

Your fingers probe along his chest, trying to capture the pattern, the black dots floating off into space. 

“No,” he chuckles. It’s a dark sound, something that tastes like black licorice in your mouth. “Don’t need to.” His nails card through your hair, skimming your scalp. The sensation shoots straight to your belly and then your clit, growing more intense when the wave draws back for another swell. “It all fades. Everything does.”

You find yourself nodding along as the black dots disperse in the air like fine mist, as if they’re following the command of his voice. Your gaze is drawn back to his face, his eyes mesmerizing and glassy, black pools of ink you think might drip down in onyx tears. His Glasgow smile stretches higher, curling and waving along his cheeks. 

“They’re perfect.” 

Was that you who spoke? It’s unimportant. Everything changes but the sound of his voice, the pure pleasure that scorches through your skin at his touch. 

“Hmm?”

“These.” 

You reach up and touch his scars, feel them under your fingers. It’s another kind of sensation, one that has you panting, desperate for something, burning with a heat that might boil you alive. He groans into your hands, allowing you to explore his face, feel the sharp edges, the bumps of scar tissue and ill-healed suture marks. 

“I need you, J,” you breathe. 

Such a simple feeling, yet the sea of your blood draws in on itself in a riptide, pulling you under. He smiles and it adds a whole new texture under your fingers, something indescribable. You just know you don’t want him to stop. 

“Mmm-hm. ‘Course you do.” 

His hands fan out across your back, feeling your shoulder blades, his nails skirting around the bones of your spine. The apartment’s still breathing with him, vibrating with want. You can’t keep back a moan. 

“J, do you love me?” You’re panting now, your mouth dry. His face is glowing white, brilliant and shining. 

“No,” he says, taking your hands in his and drawing them away from his face, “I don’t love you.” 

His eyes are so _heavy._ Heavier than they ought to be. They’re pinning you down, holding you at the bottom of the ocean while you swallow the seawater, hoping if you take enough you’ll find the space to breathe air again. But, for now, you’re drowning. Drowning in him. 

“Why not?” you ask. His words should sting, shouldn’t they? But, if you’re being honest with yourself, you weren’t expecting anything else. 

“Doesn’t count for much, does it? Love doesn’t last forever. It’s a nice thought, but it ain’t true. It’s a _lie_ , y’see.” 

You know, deep down in your soul, that he won’t ever love you. If he said he did, it’d be a lie. There’s something comforting in that, but you’re curious. Your soul’s spilled open, speaking secrets and truths you thought you buried a long time ago. 

“A lie?”

He looks happy that you asked. You like it when he’s happy. It doesn’t involve your blood on his hands this time, either. 

“People fall in and out of it all the time. It snaps under the slightest bit of pressure from the right angle. It’s meant to disintegrate. _Decay_.” There’s so much power in his voice, a force of magnetism. You can feel it drawing you in. He really is your moon. Your chest presses against his, wanting to become part of his world, of this symbiotic state of completion. “Y’know what lasts forever?” he whispers in your ear. You feel it in your toes, in your stomach like you’re swallowing his words, making them part of you. 

“What?” 

You swear you can feel the blood moving under his skin, a chasing pattern shooting up and down his arms, his heart making its own harmony. This is beautiful, too. 

“Take a, uh—a _guess.”_

But you don’t have it in you to guess. With effort, you push yourself up to meet his eyes, but you get lost in his scars again. You wonder what it would be like if someone did that to you—sliced you open. Would it feel good like everything else does right now? You’re almost tempted to ask, to implore him to take a knife to you so you can find out together. 

_“Pain.”_

That feels right, resonates in your core. He’s made pain feel good before, hasn’t he? Your soul won’t let you lie, it’s liked just about everything he’s done to you. Your brand seems to light anew at the thought, taking on its own life, too. You’re surrounded by little heartbeats, small fires that keep the world warm. 

You can’t help yourself, you lean forward and place your lips on his cheek, right on his scar. They tingle, cracks of electricity shooting from him to you. It feels _good._ You open your mouth, probe his cheek with your tongue, your hands bunched up in his shirt. Distantly, you feel his hands on you, hiking up your dress, but it’s not until he touches your waist that it feels like you’ve been struck by lightning, caught up in his thrum, resonating with the beat of the earth. Everything becomes a mess of feelings and sounds and tastes, a confusing myriad of salty and sweet, bitter and acrid and earthy. 

You almost scream when his thumb brushes against your clit and you think you could cum from that alone, but he pulls back, adjusting you to move your panties to the side before sticking his finger inside you. Your climax hits your hard, and you moan into his cheek, clinging to him as your world shakes and rumbles. It’s like you're floating, out of body. You can feel every movement inside you, every bump of his fingers, each stroke against your walls. It’s like your orgasm never ends, spilling from one into the other until you can’t breathe. Your teeth sink into him—you don’t know where—and the burst of iron and copper in your mouth sets your brain alight. And you want more. You want more of him. You want him to swallow you whole, to feel him around you—warm and wet and safe and close, within reach of his rotting heart. 

He has you on your back, your panties pulled off and your dress over your head before you have it in you to react, high off of whatever this is and the touch of him, his heat, his blood in your mouth. His face is a slash of crimson, a bleeding chrysanthemum dripping nectar onto your lips, your throat. Your world shatters when his cock sinks into you—how can you feel like this? How high can you keep climbing? Will you ever want to come back down? 

You don’t think you want to. You want this to last forever. 

Everything feels so good, beyond heightened. He’s fucking you so hard that it should hurt, but it feels like ecstasy, and he’s right. Pain is forever, and you’re starting to like it that way. You adjust your hips, letting him drive deeper into you, skin slapping skin and sounding like the deep beat of a drum. You’re cumming again, you don’t know if you ever stopped—and it’s transcendent. That’s the only word you can describe it as. Otherworldly. Preternatural. 

And you still don’t want it to stop. 

_Does it feel like this for him?_ you wonder absently, your own moans and screams and your muscles tightening like high strung strings of an instrument deafening you to almost everything else. Every touch resonates in your cunt, arcing currents that turn you into a wild live wire, unable to tell up from down. You think you might be crying, but all you feel is those waves inside you, that building storm, the feeling of his cock driving into you over and over again, your breast gripped tight in his hand. You could die like this—hell, maybe you’re already dead and this is what it feels like. What do Buddhists call it?

_Nirvana._

Your own Shangri-la. Just for the two of you. Because that’s what he said, isn’t it?

_Just the two of us._

“I’m gonna fuck you until you _beg_ me to stop,” he snarls in your ear, taking a fistful of hair and yanking your head back. 

The world splinters like a shattered mirror. Pieces fall from the ceiling, shards landing all around you. The world of light is gone, the bright kaleidoscope now a prism of darkness. Everything’s muffled, smothered under a thick blanket. The scent in the air is heavy, suffocating. The pleasure’s gone, the pain now sharp needles driving under your nail beds. You know this room, made yourself forget it. You search for something else familiar, anything else than what you know is waiting in the dark. 

“W-Wait—”

You want to sit up, but you’re pinned under something heavy. You’re lost, your mind a mess of images, overlapping and competing sensations and memories, and you can’t tell which are real anymore. There’s still someone driving themselves inside you and it hurts, it’s agony. You push against their shoulders, hyperventilating. They won’t move. You can’t make them. 

_“Stop—”_

Panic feels like it’s own force of nature, something submerging you under ice water. You look up, searching for what’s pinning you down, and you see someone you recognize. Someone you thought you left behind a long, long time ago. 

_How is this happening again?_

“A-Aaron, get off me— _please_ — ”

Your voice is gone, stolen, but you keep trying—trying to be heard, trying to make this stop. 

And it does. It stops so suddenly you wonder if you imagined it. Your eyes are wild, unseeing, caught in this world of shadow, and you’re still trying to sit up, to make him listen, but you’re being held down, their body a furnace above yours. 

“Uh, _Aaron?”_

Your vision clears. The world’s still dark, but his face defines itself from the shadows, a wraith you’re familiar with, a ghoul you’ve sold your soul to. 

“J?” Your voice is so quiet you’re not sure if you said anything at all, and his face continues to emerge from the dark, a terrifying apparition that freezes your blood in your veins, a carving of wrath. 

“You wanna tell me who that is, babygirl? Or are we going to have, ah…” he laughs, deep and predatory like a tiger playing with its meal, and you can’t breathe, “a _problem?”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, and I hope you enjoyed it (as dark and twisted as it is), and I'll have part 2 up in the next few days with it's even darker conclusion. I love hearing from all of you, and comments are always greatly appreciated! 💖
> 
> Also, disclaimer: I've never taken drugs like this before so it's mostly based on conjecture, experiences I've heard second-hand from friends and the internet, so it's probably not the most accurate. And don't do drugs unless you're in a safe environment and you know where they came from! (I guess I should also say I don't condone illegal activity, but I hope that's implicit, lmao.)


	2. Maleficus

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I said this at the beginning of the first chapter, but I'm going to reiterate this again: Please be warned, this fic is crafted around the premise of Joker finding out some distressing information for our MC and develops the desire to "rectify" the situation for her. This information is rooted in sexual violence that happened in the past, and the Joker's never been one for peaceful resolutions. They talk about what happened in length, and while I don't regale the entire incident in detail, it might be enough to cause some distress for folks. 
> 
> And I will tell you upfront, Joker does some awful, nasty, cruel things at the end of the chapter (not to the MC, though). I do not hold back on that. Joker is canonically violent to the extreme and ruthless and cruel, especially in TDK. If you disagree with that characterization, I suggest you take that particular bit up with Nolan or have a discussion with me about it, I'm always happy to talk about his character or the film with folks! 
> 
> As always, mind the tags. If this has the potential to be upsetting for you, I ask that you take care of yourself first and foremost and do what's best for you. ❤

“The great roots of night grow suddenly from your soul, and the things that hid in you come out again.” 

Pablo Neruda, from _The Light Wraps You_

* * *

You’ve made a mistake. 

Through the drug-induced haze clouding your mind, that one fact becomes clear: _You fucked up._

Everything’s still too dark, like it’s a thick blanket over your mouth. You’re pushing against his shoulder, trying to get up, his face flicking back and forth between two monsters, and you can’t tell which one would be better, which will hurt you the least. 

_What did I say?_

You thought you forgot about him—that you _made_ yourself forget. 

But then _his_ face, Aaron’s, solidifies in front of you—you’re back in that old room, and you need to get out. 

You’re not sure how you do it, but you shove him off of you and roll onto the floor. The boards warp under your hands, a platform of slithering snakes coiling around and around. Legs shaking, you manage to stand and make it to the bathroom in time to throw up. You want this poison, this the concoction of wine and whatever the fuck it was he made purged from your system. It burns your throat, agitating your already raw esophagus, and you choke and gag, your stomach convulsing like it hopes to rid you of the memories, too. Acid bathes your mouth, tongue thick with sickly sweet saliva, and you’re not sure how long you’re sick for, just that you feel completely miserable, like anything is better than this. 

Skull pounding and burning with fever, you collapse against the wall, holding your head in your hands, whimpering like a lost kid. 

_Oh no…_

You sense rather than see him. You imagine him propped against the doorframe, his arms crossed and the picture of calm, a knife gripped in his hand, the blade not yet extended but waiting for an excuse to tear you open. It's so clear you almost convince yourself that's what's going to happen, that he'll make you regret every decision you ever made that led you here. But, even with your eyes closed, the confusing swirl of movement and subdued colours finds you, and you don’t want to open them. Beyond your imagination is uncertainty—you’re not sure who you’ll see, who would be better. Shaking as he approaches, you will your body to grow smaller, to disappear until you can sleep for a long, long time and forget again. 

But nothing’s ever that easy, is it? 

"You wanna tell me what _that_ was about?" he asks. 

J—you recognize his voice, the inflection of the consonants, how they’re as sharp as the knives he uses. There isn’t any room for explanation with him, and you’re not even sure how you could. It’s with brutal clarity that you remember what he did when he thought you were cheating on him, when his jealousy could’ve killed you. You don’t have the state of mind to deal with his games, the subtle escalations. 

"N-No," you say, out of breath, shivering as the fever recedes and leaves you clammy. "Please—not right now." 

He smacks his lips; his heavy footsteps come closer. You don't look up, hoping in vain that, if you ignore him long enough, he'll go away. But you should know better—he's the most stubborn bastard you've ever had the misfortune of meeting. 

"You don't think you'll feel _worse_ if ya shut up like a clam on me, hmm?" he says, close to your ear. 

You curl in on yourself, pressing your forehead against your knees. The fever returns and you sweat, your stomach rolling and twisting itself into a knot. You think you might be sick again. 

"Don't be like this, please," you whisper, holding yourself tighter. 

He laughs, and you're glad you're not looking at his face—you'd rather take what he's going to do as a surprise than cower while you watch him wind himself up. "Be like wha- _t?"_

"I… I don't know— _you._ " The floor seems to move under you, a rolling wave or some kind of earthquake, and your head aches, pain exploding behind your eyes. It hurts so bad you could cry. You're past the point of caring if you offend him—all that matters is being alone, being away from him. "Mean. Awful. Cruel. A complete jackass," you bite, and you almost wish your eyes could stand the light so you can glare. 

His hand lands on your back, hard enough that you jerk away. You instantly regret it, pain spiking down your spine, your stomach heaving as you gag. 

" _Aww_ , babygirl, you tryin' to _flatter_ me?" he teases, his voice rising a pitch and nasally. It's the tone he saves for mocking, and you don't miss the threat hiding between the words, but you've had enough. 

_"Fuck you."_

You pour every ounce of venom into it, your pain and confusion, your frustration. He's the one who made you like this, made you sick, made you see things you were happy to forget about. You just want to be alone for more than five minutes, to collect yourself and wait for the rest of whatever he gave you to flush out of your system while you sit in the shower. But he's never been one for giving you what you want, has he?

" _Hey_." 

He grabs the back of your neck, forcing your head up and you to cry out in pain. You're met with his cold gaze, his cheek covered in blood. Faintly, you remember biting him, enjoying the taste in your mouth, but now it covers almost the entirety of the right side of his face, half-dried down his neck. It's almost… glowing. Like a neon sign advertising carnage. He flickers in and out of focus, the light playing tricks on your eyes. Any time he moves, a dozen half images follow like some kind of malfunctioning hologram. You can't tell what's happening, why the world's tilting or why you feel so _strange_ or how he keeps flicking in and out of existence like he really is some kind of ghoul and— 

He slaps you, your head cracking to the side. White-hot pain floods through you like magma waiting to burst and burn you whole. You're still panting, out of breath, exhausted and terrified, but your eyes work again. His hand is in your hair, directing you back to him, his face inches from yours.

"My patience has its… _limits._ Even for my bunny. _So,_ either you, uh, _spit it out_ , or I'll give you something _else_ to cough up. _Hmm_?" 

Your mouth's too dry to speak; all you can do is stare. There isn't much he can do that he hasn't already, but you're hurting too much, you can't deal with any more than this—because that's what he does, isn't it? Think of ways to make everything worse. 

"I… I don't know what you want me to say." It's hard to think, to sort through what you've refused to put a name to for so long, your thoughts coming to you covered in mud and impossible to recognize. 

_Would he even understand?_

You don't think he will. He's not exactly the empathetic type, and he's already made it clear, you remember that with complete certainty: he doesn't love you.

He grips the back of your neck harder, making you straighten as you whimper, everything in you protesting the jarring movements. He doesn't care. You don't think he's ever cared. "Uh, how 'bout an explanation for saying another man's _name_ while I'm _inside you_. That seems like a _swell_ starting point to me."

His tone sounds overly pleasant, his words hiding the wrath you know is bubbling inside him. What'll he do to you this time? 

_Does it matter?_

"He… he's…" Your voice breaks, eyes watering as the light blinds you and his blatant contempt hits you like another slap. "He's an ex. Someone I was with a long time ago." 

You wince, realizing you could've phrased it better, that it sounds like you just admitted to fantasizing about another lover while he was fucking you. Air doesn't reach your lungs, caught in your throat as your stomach convulses again. He's running his fingers through your hair, gentle, but you know it won't be like that for much longer, that he's going to hurt you. 

"Not hearing an _explanation,_ babygirl. In fact, this is kinda makin' me _furious_ —"

"Will you _listen_? You asked, so just… wait for the answer." You surprise yourself. You didn't think you had it in you to politely tell him to shut the fuck up. You're even more surprised when he _actually_ listens, but the malice in his eyes and the way his nails dig into your scalp tell you to tread carefully, his teeth grinding together. "He was my first serious boyfriend, but we… we had problems. It got... physical a few times. And…" It all comes back to you in a wave, and you pull away to drive the heels of your hands into your eyes, anything to take away the pain searing through your head. You choke on the words, like they're clots of old blood blocking your throat, and you hope it's enough, "He had this… _habit_ , of waiting until I was asleep and then he'd…" A sob rips out of you and you press your hands into your eyes harder, terrified—both of the man in front of you and the one in your head. "H-He'd be on top of me and—" 

Your throat's too sore to say anything else, your chest racked with sobs. He's angry, you _know_ he's angry, that he'll find a way to make this your fault and— 

His arm wraps around you, pulling you close so your head rests on his shoulder. You're stunned for a moment, but it somehow makes you cry harder when he runs his fingers through your hair again, brushing it over your shoulder, his fingertips barely grazing your skin. He holds you like that for a long time, and at some point you end up embracing him, your chest against his and your face buried in the crook of his neck. His hands rest idly at your lower back now, one thumb stroking your hip back and forth. You're so _tired_. You could sleep like this, relieved he's proved you wrong, is capable of being decent, just this once. 

You almost think you _will_ fall asleep, lulled into a state of numb. That's the best escape you can think of for this—disappearing, fading and feeling nothing for a while. If the drugs are still in your system playing havoc, you can't tell the difference anymore. It's been a long time since you've been on a boat, but you remember it feeling similar, the rocking, feeling unsteady and your equilibrium struggling to find a balance. He's so warm, burning you up like you're sitting next to a roaring furnace. Absently, you wonder if he's ever felt cold, or if he's always had this fire inside him, all-consuming and greedy. Your stomach still hurts, your senses too sharp, but the world isn't so overwhelmingly bright anymore—you're just tired. More tired than you've ever been in your life. 

He has this way of making you feel so small, like no matter what you do, there's no getting the better of him. It's as true mentally as it is physically, and today isn't any different. He picks you up with no sign of effort other than a small grunt as he straightens with you in his arms. The world whirls off its axis as he takes you to your room, and you're thankful that he doesn't throw you on the mattress this time, setting you down instead. You sway and fall back on the mattress, staring up at the ceiling. The drugs _aren't_ out of your system. The popcorn pattern is swirling like a thousand moving, monochrome lollipops. 

Your eyes are out of focus again when he pulls you up, shoving a sweater over your head and forcing your arms through the sleeves. He isn't exactly _delicate_ about it, but he isn't rough, either. You're about to tell him to take it off, you're too warm, but another bout of uncontrollable shivering hits you and you're glad for it. Arms wrap around you from behind, dragging you further up the bed until you're propped against the headboard. Even then, you can't see him—you've never needed glasses, but you think this is what it must be like. Everything's just… faded blurs swaying like trees caught in the wind, unable to define one shape from the next. 

"Eyes on _me_ , babygirl." 

You feel his hands on your calves, lifting your legs up to rest atop something… boney? 

" _Hey._ " 

Something taps against your cheek. He's sitting in front of you, your legs wrapped around his waist. It's a more intimate position than you're used to, but you find it pleasant. His hands massage your thighs, and your over-sensitive muscles relax. You feel the power in them, the strain he's exercising to not make it painful for you. This is the most he's ever tried with you. Or, the most he's ever let you _see_ him doing for you. You think you might cry again, but you don't. Your eyes feel heavy, but you keep them focused on him, fighting to stay awake. 

He appraises you, his gaze measured but angry. For once, you don't feel the full force of his wrath on you, the calculating vehemence or the hair-trigger temper ready to explode in your face. This is different and somehow more terrifying. 

"You said _'habit'_." He smacks his lips together like the word left a bad taste in his mouth, and he growls, " _How often_." 

Hesitating, you're not sure how much you should say. He'll know if you lie, and it's pointless trying when you're like this, and your brows furrow at your reluctance. You've never told anyone about this except for a friend at the time. She shrugged and asked what the problem was, didn't seem to understand the violation you felt, the fear, the constant pressure that what he was doing was _normal._ Being told you were overreacting, _crazy,_ really was starting to make you feel that way after two years. You never made the mistake of telling anyone else, and you can't tell what the outcome of this will be. You just know it'll be violent. 

_Isn't that what I always wanted? For him to get what he deserves?_

You're not sure what you want right now.

Clearing your throat, you stare at the peeking glimpse of his clavicle, the hollow at the base of his neck, the small tufts of blond chest hair showing through his unbuttoned shirt. It's easier than seeing the contempt that will find its way back onto his face, lip curling to form an insult. "Often enough that I… I wouldn't sleep for weeks, sometimes. But then he'd..." 

The sentence hangs unfinished in the air. You're not sure what else to say, how to find the words. A new rush of images hits you hard enough that you can't tell where you are for a moment, the scents mixing and the air pressure rising until it feels like someone's sitting on your chest. 

Joker's hands guide you back down, digging in without the purpose of trying to hurt you. It's tender, stimulating your nerves, and you focus on it, on how he feels under you. You cling to the feeling, that anchor to reality. 

"Is he, uh, still _breathing?"_

_I… don't think I heard him right._

"Mmm?"

His voice has always been so soothing to you, and right now isn't any different. 

"Has anyone put him in the ground ye- _t_? Or are _you_ waiting for some... _special_ occasion?" 

"No!" you shout, unsure of what you’re saying or if you mean it. It’s an instinctive reaction. Murder is _wrong._ You don’t want to do that to anyone. "No, I… it was a long time ago. I just—I want to forget." 

He tongues the inside of his scars, making his cheek bulge as he stares at you in disbelief. " _Forget_." He shakes his head. "Huh." His grip tightens before he releases his hold on your thigh, scooching closer until you almost straddle him, and his nose almost touches yours. "Y'see, if it were _me_ in this situation, he’d _wish_ he were dead. _"_

You can imagine what he’d do all too well. You’re not an idiot, you’ve seen the things he’s done on the news, felt first-hand just how awful he can be, watched as wicked thoughts formed in his mind, set his eyes alight. That dark part of you from before, the one where you thought about killing him, rises. You shove it back down, your hold on it slipping the more you try. 

"What else did he do." 

He’s not requesting anything. He’s demanding. You don’t want to go down where this will lead, think about what he’ll do. 

You shake your head, the vision spinning and forcing your eyes closed. "J, I—please, don't make me talk about it." 

You want to sleep. That’s all you want to do. But he has other ideas. 

"I think you're under the impression that, ah… I'm the _forgiving_ type. That I'm an _advocate_ for letting the past stay there, hmm?" 

A laugh almost forms in your chest, and you smile weakly at him before it fades. "No… no, it's just—I don't think that, but… There isn't—no one can change it."

 _What’s done is done,_ you think.

The adage doesn’t sit right, doesn’t feel true anymore. It isn’t done. You’ve managed to forget about it for all this time, and yet it’s still there—will always _be_ there—a constant pain that waits for an excuse to surface. You’ll have to hold onto that for the rest of your life.

 _Does Aaron feel the same?_

No. He probably doesn’t. 

"Did you go to the police?" Joker asks, dragging your attention back to the present. You swallow hard. "The answer's _no—_ I can _tell_. They would've _laughed_ you out of there. _You_ know that, _I_ know that." The light from the hall frames his head in a halo. It’s a striking contrast to the blood on his face, the black pits where his eyes should be. He seems to grow, his voice deeper, a gravelly whisper that slides inside your ear, making a home in your mind. "Our system is not one of _justice_ , babygirl. It's about _punishment_. Punishing the people they think did _wrong_. Such an _arbitrary_ idea, really.” You’ve never heard him talk like this before. You want to come up with a counterpoint, tell him he’s wrong, but you’re silent. “This is where _morals_ get you into trouble. And, in _your_ case, they would've made it about _you_ not putting out enough, hmm? Saying _no_ so often that he just _couldn't help himself._ No- _t…_ being a _good girl._ 'Cause that's what you're supposed to be for them. _Good."_

You can’t look away from him now. He just said what you couldn’t articulate for _years,_ and he’s right. How many of your friends had that happen to them? Police telling them they had no case. To _get over it. Move on._ Like it’s simple. Like they hadn’t thought of it already. How many cases in the news did you have to click away from or change the channel when they talked about yet another scumbag walking after being charged with rape, assault? You can’t count how many. But you remember the instances where your neighbours were arrested for nothing more than being poor and struggling to get by, making one mistake but going to prison for months or years at a time, while the men who beat them got a night in the drunk tank and a warning. 

Something’s waking up inside you. Something that was always there but stayed asleep. You’re not sure if it’s a good thing. 

" _So_ , when I'm asking what he did, I'm giving you a chance to… put him on _trial_. Think of it that way."

"You mean kill him." 

He pauses, considering you. "Are you saying you _don't_ want him to die?" he asks after a moment, his eyes narrowing. 

Where is this resistance coming from? Maybe it’s the way you were raised, believing in the sacredness and value in human life. You’ve lived your whole life that way, haven’t you? Do no harm, treat others how you want to be treated. 

_And where has that gotten me?_

"I… I don't know what I want.” It’s true, and you can barely think straight. “Can we please just sleep—" 

He leans forward, cupping your face in his hands. "Your _morals_ are an _undue_ burden. _Useless._ Why shouldn't he die, hmm? Give me _three_ good reasons." It’s almost like he’s… reasoning with you rather than forcing his way into your head. The world swirls around him, and he stays the only steady thing, your constant. His thumbs brush against your cheeks. 

You close your eyes and you shift, trying to get _anything_ to work, to formulate a reason why he can’t do this. Why you can’t be part of it. But you feel like a ball of lead falling deep into the sea, sinking and sinking without knowing when you’ll reach the bottom. "It—it's not that simple."

A short burst of laughter shakes him. He sounds manic, his grin broad and his face alive with sanguine mirth. "Sure it is.” As soon as it came, it leaves. His expression is deadpan, terrifying. You shiver despite his heat, suddenly afraid. “Either he _deserves_ to die or he doesn't. _Which is it_?" 

_Why does it matter? Why can’t I think straight?_

You feel sick again, but he doesn’t let you move, his fingers along your jaw holding you in place.

"Neither? I don't know—" 

_"Yes, you do,"_ he growls, all signs of his patience gone. He’s on the verge of shaking you, his teeth bared in frustration, and you cower against the bed frame. "Start being _honest_ with yourself. Say what you _want_ , because you're angry, aren't you?" 

For how hard your heart’s beating, erratic and jumping, you feel like a rabbit in a cage with a hungry fox on the other side. Your blood's coursing through you, going too fast without enough oxygen, leaving you light headed and feeling strange. 

"What are you trying to do, J? What's the point?" you murmur, your eyes closing. 

"Oh, babygirl…" He laughs again, but there’s no illusion of humour. He shakes you until your eyes fly open, his hands going under your arms to straighten you. "What do you think it is... that I _do_ when I leave, hmm?" Gripping your neck, his gaze is intense, scorching. "It's a, uh, _serious_ question." 

You’ve never talked about this with him, either. And, if you’re being honest with yourself, you never wanted to. Ignoring what he does just became part of the process, a way you can live with yourself, to bury your guilt and shame. He’s forcing you to confront it when you were only too happy to forget about this, too. 

"You… you hurt people," you breathe, unable to form the words that say what he really is. What he does. 

As if to prove your point, he cackles, leaning back on his haunches as his shoulders shake with the force of it. This is not the reaction of a man who feels guilt, who knows what remorse feels like. It’s bone-chilling. Even more disturbing when you take into account how you feel about him. 

"A _bit_ simplistic, but… you're not wrong," he chuckles, wagging a finger at you before looking off into a far corner of the ceiling, like he’s sharing some private joke with God. He sighs, his chest calming, and his gaze flicks back to you. "So why… _hesitate_ about this sack of shit getting his? _Don't_ tell me you haven't thought about it." 

You know what he’s doing, you do. You can see the map he’s following, what his destination is, and yet... you don’t want this to stop. You _want_ him to convince you, tell you it’s OK. 

"I used to, but I…” you trail off. You’re not sure how to phrase this, if he’s still liable to lose his temper, unleash his anger on you if you say the wrong thing, remembering all too clearly how he reacted when you said Joseph was nice to you. You keep your eyes down, watching his hands, and the words come like you’re coughing up shards of glass. “There was a time… I used to love him,” you whisper, “I thought… I thought he loved me.” 

He sucks his teeth and you flinch, but his hands don’t move for your throat. Instead, they make their way back to your thighs, tracing circles along your skin, inching higher towards your hips. You feel him tensing, the rage that belies his gentleness. 

“Ah. _Love.”_ He scoffs, rolls his eyes. “And I _did_ tell you love was pain, didn’t I?” He’s nodding now, deep in thought. After a moment, his lips pop, tongue dragging across, and then he’s on you, dragging you up so you’re entirely straddling him, having nothing for support but his grip on your arms and the sweating heat of his chest, his slacks rough against your bare skin. “No, no—let me be more… _clear._ Love and pain _are_ the same, both halves of the same coin. Bu _-t…_ ” He pushes the hair away from your face, holding you harder. The world’s still off-kilter, wrong, and he’s the only thing that feels right. “It’s the _willingness_ to accept pain. Embracing it _. Coveting it_. Taking it ‘cause you want it, because you know _that’s_ how your souls intertwine. Blood magic. Two can’t become _one_ without _ripping you open_ first.” His fingers move your hair until he’s gripping the back of your head, his other hand working under your sweater to rest on your ribs. “Did you _want_ what he did?” 

“No,” you say immediately. You didn’t. No matter how you tried to rationalize it at the time, you never wanted it—and you realize now you never wanted him, either. 

“Then that ain’t _love._ It doesn’t make him anything more than a _degenerate._ A sick dog that needs to be put down. And, ah, in _this_ situation, I’m the vet! Except I don’t plan on being very… _humane.”_

He’s grinning like a madman, high on the thought of it. Almost as if it’s contagious, the idea of him dying sparks something in you, too. Waking that slumbering beast, one eye opening. 

"What did he do? _Say it_." 

Your chest shakes, hands trembling. He’s still making insistent eye contact, but you can’t bear it. You press yourself against him, hiding your face in his shoulder, breathing in the smell of gunpowder and gasoline, blood and sweat, the essence that’ll infect you now. Will you smell like this if you follow through, if you go down that path? Or does it matter so little that you wouldn’t change at all? 

"He… he'd…" You grip his shoulders, almost unable to get your mouth to work. With your eyes closed, it’s easier to pretend you’re not really saying this, that it’s a confession someone else is sharing. "It would—most nights I convinced myself I was dreaming. It wouldn't last… last long, sometimes. But then…" You go still, aching with the effort of holding everything in. How can it be that, just when you think you know what it is to unravel, you realize you never knew anything at all, that there’s always a new dimension of pain waiting to welcome you home? "He… he wanted me awake. My face would be pressed into the pillow, he wouldn't let me breathe, and he'd… he'd say _that_ in my ear—what you said—but make it impossible to say anything back and—” Your voice is hoarse; you’re not sure if he can hear you, but he’s gone still, his hands frozen and pressed into your skin like talons. “He… broke my nose like that, twice. Would keep me there until I started to ch-choke on my own blood." 

You don’t feel like yourself anymore. Like your body is yours, was _ever_ yours. Maybe this is all part of the same nightmare, a long one. For a second, you convince yourself that this is just an extension of Halloween, that you’re trapped in your own head. You’ve heard of dreams like that, ones that seem to stretch for ages only for you to wake up and see it was only a few hours. A bad journey into Wonderland. 

_That’s it… none of this is real. It’s not real._

But his voice shatters the illusion, dragging your mind from its hiding place. "And you're telling me you _don't_ want him dead?" he asks, his nose pressed into your hair. 

"I… I don't know what I want.” Doesn’t he know how tired you are? How you can’t think? “But I don't… I don’t want that." 

He pulls away from you, shoving you onto your back. His chest nearly crushes yours, his hands gripping your wrists as he pins you to the mattress. He’s angry now. Angry with you. " _Why_." 

It’s not a question, it’s a demand, and you shake beneath him, eyes wide with terror. "Because murder is—it's… _wrong_ ," you say, your voice sounding impossibly small. 

"You'll _fuck_ a mass murderer but you don't wanna kill your _rapist_? Oh, _bunny—_ " He howls, his entire body rumbling with it. It’s unhinged, wild, like he might snap and sink his teeth into your jugular. You whimper after his laughter turns into a wheeze, when he gets close and grips your wrists so hard you think they might break. "Is this what they teach in _Sunday school_? Take what life _fucks you with_ and _smile_ and say _thank you_ afterward?” He’s not shouting, but he might as well be. You flinch away, crying in earnest.

Holding himself above you, you feel his breathing even, his rage subside. He relaxes his hold, taking your chin in his hand and forcing you to look at him.

“No. _No._ That's not how _our_ world works." 

Despite the fear he strikes in you, there’s something magnetic about his words. Alluring. How he goes from demon to seducer, hypnotizing you with words and his eyes alone. 

"How… how does our world work?" you whisper, taking a shuddering breath.

“It's just the two of us." He dips down, his mouth close to your ear, " _No one else matters."_

Pulling back, he strokes your cheek and kisses you. It’s deep, his tongue in your mouth and clouding your already foggy mind. Hesitating, you put your arms around his neck, holding him close. It’s tempting to think that way. It’s not the first time he’s said it, either—and he’s made that come true, hasn’t he? You’ve almost forgotten what it was like to live without him, pulled into his orbit until it really does feel like it’s just the two of you, that everything else is outside in the far reaches of space. You can see them, see how many dot the sky like innumerable stars, but they ultimately mean nothing, don’t they? An abstract concept that only weighs on you when you think too hard. It’s impossible to focus on them when you’re with him, when his hand is up your shirt and gripping your breast, your lips between his teeth and his hardening length pressing against your stomach. 

_No, think. I have to think._

“J, hang on,” you pant, breaking away and trying to sit up, "That's not true—" 

He growls and it turns into a roar, his frustration winning out. You almost scream when you see the fury in him, the murderous intent. A hand slaps over your mouth and he straightens, still between your legs. He looks down at you with a false sense of sympathy. Contempt. Disbelief. Smacking his lips together, he looks over your head, mumbling something you can’t hear to himself. He waits until you calm down, until _he’s_ calm, before moving his hand away, placing it on your throat, his thumb on your pulse. 

" _Don't_ argue with me about the _sanctity_ of human life,” he bites, his teeth impossibly sharp in the dark. Your lungs struggle to pull in air, your head getting light. “You wouldn't have gotten on all fours for me, spread your legs and _begged_ me to _fuck you,_ or tell me _so sweetly,_ I might add, that you _needed me_ if you ever gave a _fuck_ about upholding all things _go_ _od_ and _righteous_ in the world. Don't make yourself a hypocrite. You're better than that." 

Once again, the truth of what you’ve done hits you hard. It certainly weakens your position, and it throws your own sense of right and wrong into doubt, almost obliterating it. He’s right. You hate it, but he is. You’ve been fucking him for months, willingly staying with him, eager to please, desperate for whatever crumb of attention he’ll give you, grown so attached to him with a tangled web of feelings you’re unwilling to decipher. You never called the police on him. In fact, you made the conscious decision to do absolutely _nothing_ when they came to your apartment, even when he had that toy inside you, was so fucking hellbent on humiliating you while he was at it. You didn’t even pull his own gun on him. Where was your vindication then, your higher ground you’ve always assumed you had? 

You’re beginning to realize you never had it at all. It doesn’t exist. 

"You have an _uncomfortable_ feeling in your tummy that tells you it's _wrong?”_ he asks, scathing. “You've been _trained_ to feel that way. Like a _dog._ " You’re in freefall, but his words still reach you, hit their mark. "Are you a _dog_ , babygirl? Like _him_?" 

Staring up at Joker, taking in the broad slant of his shoulders and the greasy head of hair haloing around his face, something in you gives way. An imaginary wall. 

The beast has two eyes open now. 

"No," you say, feeling light, “No, I’m not.” 

He nods, smiling. "Say what comes to mind first." His lips press against your jaw, and you become ephemeral, a small wink of existence he makes real. "What does _Aaron_ deserve?" 

"Pain." 

You don’t think. You don’t want to think about any of this anymore. 

"Mm- _hmm_." 

"To feel what I felt." 

He’s so close to you, your heartbeats synchronized like you share one, like he really is part of you. You’ve never felt more intoxicated, so lost in the presence of another. You’d let him do anything to you, wouldn’t you? 

_Does that mean I love him?_

The thought comes faintly, flickering out as soon as it forms. 

"Uh- _huh."_

"For… for no one else to go through that," you say quietly. 

_"So what's the solution?"_ You know what it is, but you’re not sure you can bring yourself to say it. He’s determined to make it happen. His hands hold your head up, his eyes two small glimmers of light in the dark. "The police are _useless_ , aren't they? Shall we _wait_ all patient- _like_ for the universe to enact some karma? Or…" He becomes your world. He’s all you feel, all you breathe. All that matters. "Should we _carve out_ a chunk for ourselves?" 

You find yourself nodding, your hands clinging to his forearms, feeling the taut muscles, the familiar curves of his hands, all their sharp edges. 

"What do _you_ think, babygirl?" 

You think he’s right.

* * *

Violence used to scare you. 

Ever since you were little, you always cowered when you were afraid. You’re not sure when that started to happen, what was the catalyst that made you play it safe, run away when the going got tough, avoid action movies and horror films. You just didn’t like thinking about it, dwelling on the unpleasant. And that’s how you tailored your whole life, isn’t it? Living in a good neighbourhood, working somewhere your parents thought was respectable, never doing anything they wouldn’t forgive, that would disappoint them. It meant you missed certain things, chickened out when your friends would be daring, stayed at home rather than sneak out late. You did your homework, you handed your projects in on time—you’re the dependable one, the _sensible_ one. 

But where did that get you, really? 

Several failed relationships, a life long fear of sharing anything with your parents out of fear of rejection, hiding what you felt from your friends, not opening up to anyone, slaving away at your job and working hard so that people would like you, that you did all the right things. 

And it was exhausting. 

You never let yourself think about it before, but you are _angry._ Angry in your bones. Those flashes you felt before and reasoned away were genuine, a series of self-policing measures meant to keep you _good_. You don’t know what that means anymore. Because J’s right, isn’t he? How you’ve convinced yourself that you’re better, that you’re different, and yet you were so enthralled with him, willing to turn a blind eye and maintain the illusion. This was going to happen one way or another, making a choice. Stepping on one side of the line. And, if you’re going to be honest with yourself, this was a foregone conclusion you chose when he stayed that first weekend, when you initiated sex after shaving his face, not shooting him or calling someone. If your life before was so great, why haven’t you had the urge to call the people you left behind, connect with any of them even when you were at your loneliest? 

You know the answers now, don’t you? 

Chalk it up to not getting outside much in the last few weeks, but you didn’t know the fourplex has a basement. It’s quiet down here, too. You can’t hear any noise from the street, none of the sirens and yelling neighbours you’re used to otherwise tuning out. Damp and frigid, the concrete walls bare and covered in sprouting black spores, it’s empty save for a broken chair in the corner, an old dresser by the stairs, and the bloody baseball bat at your feet, a few jack posts supporting the weight of the building above you. If you weren’t so numb, you might’ve been cold. 

“You start to _enjoy_ the sound of begging after a while. I know _I_ do,” the Joker says to you over his shoulder. 

In the middle of the room, tied up on the floor and gagged, is Aaron. It didn’t take long for J to find him, to drag him down here and warm him up with a few broken ribs, a shattered leg. One of his men is at the top of the stairs, just in case. Otherwise, it’s just you three. 

It bothered you at first, the sound of him screaming, asking you for help, begging the Joker to stop. But then he started asking Aaron questions, retaliating with a viciousness you never could’ve imagined on your own when he sensed Aaron lied. He’s good at it, seemingly reading a person’s thoughts. It’s almost comforting to know you’re not the only one he sees through so clearly, and you’d be lying if you said it didn’t feel good every time the Joker caught him in a lie, when he tried downplaying what he’d done, when he’d try his best to call you a harlot, a conniving bitch. 

Joker’s reactions to that made you feel good in a strange way, too. 

A distant part of you feels sick, is increasingly horrified, but a larger part is fascinated. Enthralled at how pain bends people, what they’ll do to avoid it, and how Joker takes all of it and wraps it around his finger like it really is an art form for him, a vocation he’s perfected. His _raison d'etre_. 

As you’ve stood, watching Aaron bleed more and more, listened to his bones break and his screams of pain grow louder, you were reminded of another phrase you learned a long time ago. _L’appel du vide._ Call of the void. You never really understood it, that all-encompassing desire to watch your own ruin and bask in it, unable—no, _unwilling_ —to help yourself as you fall. 

You understand it now. You hear its voice, and it sounds like the Joker. 

“There’s a, uh… _delicacy_ to using knives, babygirl. You don’t wanna end the fun too _quick._ Nothin’ worse than having them _bleed out_ all over your favourite pair of shoes ‘cause you nicked an artery.” 

He’s crouched down next to Aaron, a long line-up of knives beside him. Everything from a carving knife to a Ka-Bar to a potato peeler. You never realized he carried all of that in his trench coat, how many instruments of pain he always has with him. Faintly, you wonder how you’ve survived this long. He could’ve used those on you at any point, couldn’t he? And yet he didn’t. He’s here using them on someone else. 

He picks up each knife in turn, examining them closely, pressing the tip against his gloved finger before putting them back into the neat line. He’s in his full regalia tonight, his face coated in fresh greasepaint, his coats making him look taller, broader. This is one of the few instances you’re not completely terrified of him. There’s something about seeing him like this that makes you feel warm, breaks through the apathy, pools in your lower belly. 

“Well, _you’re_ already raring to go, aren’t you, boy?” he taunts as he lightly slaps the man on the floor. Aaron whimpers in reply, trying to speak through the blood-stained gag. He was like this when you were together, always trying to talk his way out of everything. You’re still shocked you don’t feel as bad as you thought you would. “I don’t _usually_ prefer, ah, _tenderizing_ my playmates before a session, but, _sometimes,_ we have to make exceptions, don’t we?” 

He finally decides on a filleting knife, the kind used to carve up fish. It’s long and thin, but you’ve cut yourself on one before—you know they’re sharp, precise, and able to reach deep. 

“ _Now_ …” The Joker straightens, sounding almost dreamy, like he’s lost in the blade, the promises it tells him, and he strokes the back of it lovingly before his eyes land on the man on the floor. “Where should we start, doll?” 

You move forward, almost like you’re in a dream yourself, and stand beside him. He doesn’t reach out to touch you, nor you to him. The drugs have had a few hours to leave your system, but you wonder if they’re still playing a part in this, why you feel so calm. Aaron’s eyes meet yours, and you think of all those nights he hurt you, the mornings he convinced you that you enjoyed it, that he was trying his _best. Don’t I do enough for you?_ he’d ask after buying you dinner, paying for your groceries, helping you with rent when you were struggling. He’d look at you like he is right now, like he’s sincere, like he’s never done anything to hurt someone in his life. 

But you know differently now, and he can’t convince you that you’re overreacting, that you misunderstood, that you’re _confused_. Joker’s already gotten all the answers out of him you’ll ever need. He knew what he was doing, and he enjoyed himself while he did it. 

“I want him to know what it feels like to scream without being able to make a sound.” You don’t sound angry even though you’re on fire inside. Maybe it’s better this way, staying tranquil, unmoved. Maybe it’s more terrifying for him to think this doesn’t mean much for you, that, just maybe, you’re doing this for a sick thrill rather than vengeance. 

Joker’s eyebrows shoot up, his mouth curling into a mischievous grin. “ _Ooh._ Creative. I _like it.”_ He turns on his heel, leaning over Aaron to fake-whisper in his ear, “Doesn’t she have a _nasty,_ brilliant little brain? _I_ think so.” 

He rips off Aaron’s gag. Taking several large breaths, he screams, “Please, _please_ —let me go, I won’t tell _anyone_ about this. _No one_!” He’s blubbering now, looking from you to Joker. You say nothing while Joker smiles down benignly at him. To say it’s unnerving is an understatement. “C’mon. No—you, why’re _you_ doing this? What kind of fucked up Twilight Zone am I in?” he shouts at you when neither of you respond. You take in his distress with no particular interest. The lack of guilt you feel is genuinely surprising. “You—you’re _both_ nuts. Fucking _insane, crazy!_ —” 

Joker cuts him off with a savage kick to the ribs, hard enough to make you wince and force out the air from Aaron’s lungs and probably crack another rib. He curls in on himself, wheezing, eyes streaming with tears. 

“ _Rude._ ” He tsks, “That any way to talk to your hosts?” Joker asks, one hand on his chest, offended. He’s chuckling under his breath, that same manic giggle, already high on the blood lust, mad. He reminds you more of a hyena than a wolf but just as brutal. The knife spins and dances over his fingers, catching the dim light. Looking at you, he gives you a playful wink. “ _Now…_ Let’s see what it’s like to watch a man try to _scream_ with a hole in his throat.”

He’s giggling louder and it transforms into a low cackle. Aaron shouts in panic, trying to drag himself away the best he can with his arms tied behind his back and a broken leg. He doesn’t make it far, and Joker has a skip in his step, humming some tune you can’t make out under his breath. 

_“No—no wait!—”_ he screams. 

But the Joker doesn’t care. 

He’s on Aaron quicker than your slow mind can track, but you don’t miss the knife coming down, burying itself in his throat, right below his Adam’s apple. You don’t hear it go in, but you hear the wet sound of it withdrawing, the spurt of red pouring from the open wound. Aaron’s still trying to scream, but it sounds like air moving through wet pipes, words escaping from his throat before they can form in his mouth. Joker’s smiling widely, his eyes closed as if he’s savouring it, every struggling inhale and panicked groan. 

“Ah... _T_ _here_ we go,” he sighs, his eyes fluttering. Unlike you, he doesn’t need drugs to feel euphoric, to grasp what you brushed against earlier, that taste of the real. Aaron struggles to cover his open wound, and blood trails out to soak his ruined dress shirt, pool on the concrete floor. “Tick _that_ off the bucket list.” He thinks for a moment, laughs. “Heh, cat got your _tongue_?” he mocks, holding in another giggle as he watches Aaron struggle beneath him. “Oh, I’m _sorry_ , can you speak up?” 

He doubles over with laughter, one hand slapping Aaron’s chest like they’re in on the same joke and the other wiping nonexistent tears from his eyes, the now bloody knife still gripped tight in his fist. It takes a minute for him to calm, to push himself off of Aaron’s writhing body. His arms wave out in a grand swoop as he straightens, and he sighs in content. This is the happiest you’ve seen him. Or, what you think is happiness. 

“What nex- _t_?”

You look from Aaron to the Joker, blinking hard, trying to focus. The expression of mirth is gone, replaced with one that’s almost business-like, serious. You’re not sure why, but you can’t find your voice, find it in you to speak. It’s almost like he took it from you like he did Aaron. 

He shrugs, indifferent. “Hmm…” Tapping the knife against his chin, leaving blood marks behind, he makes a show of thinking. “Y’know, Aaron, I don’t think you _appreciate_ the work that goes into a cut like this. A _little_ to the left and there goes your carotid artery. Too _deep_ and _oop!_ I’ve nicked your esophagus and _you_ choke on your own blood.” 

He’s pacing now, circling Aaron like a shark after tasting blood in the water. Aaron’s still trying to get away, feebly making his way to the stairs on his stomach now. “This is me being _nice._ You should _thank_ me.” Joker stops him just before he gets to the steps, his foot landing hard on Aaron’s back. More air rushes out of the gash, sounding like a wet plastic bag being sucked into a vacuum cleaner. “People these days. So… _ungrateful.”_ He tuts his disapproval, shaking his head. 

With one arm, he drags Aaron back to the middle of the basement by his broken leg. This time, his screams make it past his ruined windpipe. You almost feel his agony reverberate in you, his desperation. You keep watching, somehow gliding slowly until you’re behind Joker. He doesn’t turn, but he senses you there, cracking his neck with a groan and rolling his shoulders. 

“You ever take biology, babygirl?” he asks. The playfulness is gone, replaced with a wave of seething anger you haven’t felt since the night he attacked Joseph, when he branded you. He doesn’t wait long for you to answer. “No? Hmm. _Well…_ ” 

He twists in place, his coats twirling around him until he’s the one behind you. His hands slide up from your back to your shoulders, moving your hair out of the way for him to kiss your bare neck, and you shiver, leaning into him.

“I’m feeling… _magnanimous._ You’re about to get a lesson for free.” He takes a big breath, inhaling the smell of you, his grip tighter on your shoulders until you’re sure it’ll leave a new set of bruises. “Oh, stop struggling. You’ll just _tire_ yourself out, y’know,” he chides when Aaron tries again to move away, looking up at you both with horror, like you’re one of the monsters, too. “He always overreact like this?” 

Joker doesn’t wait for the answer to that either, chuckling lowly as he prowls back toward Aaron, flipping him over and straddling his legs, making sure to put extra weight on his shattered femur. He adjusts, feigning that he’s trying to make himself comfortable, grinning like a demon at Aaron’s continued wheezing, the wet slapping sounds coming from his throat, his inability to beg for mercy.

He hums some off-tune beat, his hands exploring Aaron’s stomach, pushing hard on the places he knows have broken bones and almost perfectly mimicking what you’ve seen doctors do to you before when you’ve been sick in the hospital, when they check for swelling in your torso. 

“There are, ah, _soft spots_ you can aim for. _Small_ slivers where the organs don’t meet, where you can just… _slide_ in your knife and they bleed for _hours_ without dying.” He’s talking to you again, employing the voice of a thoughtful teacher, like this really is meant to be a learning experience for you. He finds a spot on Aaron’s left side, just below his ribs. From the little you remember about the anatomy of the human body, it’s approximately where the spleen is. “It’s a time investment, babygirl, but the results…” his eyes droop, but they find you in the dark of the basement, and he smiles, “they’re _priceless.”_

The knife sinks into Aaron’s chest like a hot blade cutting through butter, blood erupting on either side as he pushes it in. You don’t need to hear Aaron’s shrieks to understand the pain he’s in, the plea for this to end. 

“J,” you say, your voice barely above a rasp. He can’t seem to hear you, withdrawing the blade and finding another spot before sinking it in, watching carefully before adjusting the angle and pushing further. You don’t remember moving, but you’re behind him, your hand on his shoulder. “J, wait.”

He freezes, slowly turning to look at you. Feral. Rabid. Ready for the kill. 

You drop down beside him, your hand on his neck. Gently, you place a small kiss on his cheek, right above his scar, before kissing his lips, lingering for a moment. He doesn’t look as furious when you pull away, but his face is more open than you’re used to. You can see the vision playing out in his head, thinking now about what it would be like to do this to you, how it’d feel to have so much of your blood on his hands. 

You kiss him again, deeper this time, your tongue brushing against his bottom lip, the forked scar splitting it. He doesn’t move, doesn’t reciprocate, but you can feel the heat building in him, a different kind of fire. Your hand trails from his throat to his hand, his leather glove slick with warm, sticky blood. 

“Can I…?” 

Saying nothing, he passes the knife to you, closing your fingers around the handle. It feels odd in your hand, wholly unfamiliar. Strange. Dangerous. But it won’t be you on the receiving end this time. Aaron looks up at you with hope, pleading. You wonder how many times you looked at him like that, silently asking him to stop when he’d have your arms pinned behind your back, your face buried in your pillow until you couldn’t breathe, until your bones broke. You wonder if he was always like this, if there was a threshold he waited for you to cross before he decided to do that to you, if there was something so wrong with you that brought out the worst in him. You wonder if he’s done this to anyone else, how many other people he’s hurt, how many feel _exactly_ like you do but have it buried so deep in them that it becomes a persistent nightmare, something you can convince yourselves happened to someone else, chalk up to a mistake, a bad relationship and nothing more. 

“Did you think about me at all, Aaron?” you ask. 

Your voice is as foreign to you as the world. Everything becomes unreal, unravelled. Through his suffering, you see his confusion. Your eyes are fixed on the hole in his throat, the dark window leading into his body, the red beyond, the bleeding ruin. 

“Did you ever feel sorry?” you whisper. 

He hesitates before he nods, caught up in the terror. Terror _you’re_ now inflicting. And it feels… _Invigorating._ You lean in so close your hair dips into the thick blood soaking his torso, coating your bare feet, your lips hovering just above his ear—just like he’d do to you in the middle of it, when he’d tell you to beg for him, when he’d finish and say how _good_ you felt. 

“I don’t believe you.” 

You’re not sure what comes over you, this blinding rage that transforms you into vengeance incarnate, some wrathful goddess from deep below. You become deaf to the world, deaf to your own screams, deaf to his. The sharp jarring that racks through your arm when you hit bone breaks through, resonating like a bad case of tinnitus in your ears before you bring down the knife again, savage and raw and _hungry._ Something hot coats your face, sprays across your chest, a thick red mist that nearly blinds you. 

But you don’t stop. 

It could be an eternity or nothing more than a minute, but you shriek when you’re pulled away, when the knife’s wrenched out of your hand. You don’t know what you’re saying, why you can’t control yourself. You’re held tight, something strong pinning your arms to your body. All you see is red, his once strong body broken, spilled out in front of you. But you're not finished, you'll _never_ be finished, so why can't you move? Why can't you keep going, keep pursuing resolution? 

_Why do I still hurt so much?_

You think you might be crying, but you have no way of knowing. It doesn't matter.

_What does, then?_

Eventually, the adrenaline leaves you, and you’re more exhausted than before, utterly drained, desolate. You can’t see, your eyelashes thick with something warm that trails down your cheeks. 

You distantly register that you’re being moved, propped up against something, and you sag when the weight is taken off your feet, numb again when something starts wiping your face, roughly dabbing at your eyes. Soon, Joker’s face becomes visible, and he’s smiling at you, happy. _Genuinely_ happy. You think you’re smiling back, glad you did something to make him look like that, before breaking down in earnest. 

He’s there to catch you, his hand rubbing up and down your back as you cry into his shoulder, grip his coat with the little strength you have left. Your arms feel boneless, like you’re the broken one on the floor, but you cling to him anyway, desperate for reassurance that you did the right thing. You don’t think he’s been this affectionate with you before, this considerate. It keeps you from completely tipping over, from descending into a fit of mad giggles, empty laughter as what’s left of you irreparably broke. 

But he’s here. He’ll _always_ be here. 

Waiting until you calm, he pulls away, cupping your cheeks and kissing you hard. It’s the first real sensation, the electric rush that always comes with touching him. You chase it, hold onto it with everything you have. Your mouth is full of something bitter and metallic when his tongue pushes inside, but you don’t care. You return it with the same heat, your hands buried in his hair. When he breaks away, he has to hold you back until your head clears. He’s still smiling. 

“Oh, I am _proud_ of you, babygirl.” 

You don’t hear any condescension, no taunt. You think he might mean it. 

“Proud?” you croak. 

He nods, his thumb gliding across your jaw, wet with something you can’t see. “Mm- _hmm_ ,” he hums, all sing-song. 

You’re smiling madly without thinking about why, what you’ve just done. It feels like you’re a separate person now, lighter and giddy. It’s when you pull away, your hands smoothing his jackets and straightening his tie that you see it’s all soaked in blood, the purple almost obliterated in dark, rusty crimson. 

“I… I’m sorry.” Your brow furrows, and you look around for something to wipe it with only to see you’re covered in red, too. It doesn’t entirely click with you, what it means—it’s too far away to matter, you’re just sad that you’ve wrecked something important to him. “I ruined your suit.” 

You look up at him in apology, but he chuckles, tucking your hair behind your ear. “It’s seen worse.” His hands grip your shoulders, easing you down. “Just lay back. Daddy’ll take care of the rest.”

You’re flat on your back, looking up at the cobweb-filled ceiling. It almost looks like cotton candy to you, fluffy and light, almost close enough for you to reach out and touch. He’s between your legs, spreading them apart. You vaguely remember putting your dress back on upstairs and then the sweater he gave you over that. When he lifts the skirt of your dress over your hips, you realize you didn’t put on any panties, that he has you angled upward, your legs over his shoulders. 

Any thought you have evaporates when his tongue meets your clit, languidly stroking up and down your slit. Your back arches and your legs squeeze around his head in surprise, a loud moan escaping you. His mouth closes over your sensitive clit, his tongue finding its way inside your cunt. From the sounds you’re making, you were already wet, and the pleasure chases everything away. His hands grip your thighs tightly, keeping them spread as he sucks and licks and bites, and you alternate between barely suppressed screams and moaning, your skin rolling and hot, separating itself from the muscle, activating each nerve. 

“J—” You want to tell him he’s making you feel good— _so_ good—but what’s left of your voice dies when you cum, your body shaking as you writhe underneath him. 

It’s like you’re high again, at the peak of it as those waves you felt before return, washing over you. He doesn’t stop and you don’t want him to. An abstract thought floats by, almost like you can see the words forming across your eyelids—you wonder if you look so different from the man on the floor, if pleasure is all that separate from pain. You realize it isn’t when another wave swallows you, your hips twisting now to get away from him, from his teeth biting down on your clit, oversensitive to the point it begins to hurt. An odd sense of determination finds you—you want to see how much you can take, how much you can stand. 

He hasn’t done this in so long that it feels brand new, powerful, overwhelming. Soon, you’re crying, reaching up to hold his hands as you tremble and convulse, loud and unconscious as you forget about the man at the top of the stairs. All that stays in your mind is the consuming need to have him inside you, to feel his hands on you. 

“D-Daddy, _please—”_ you pant, barely audible, your sweat mixing with something sweet and acrid, like burning copper. “I need—need you—” 

You can feel him smiling from the way his scars pull against you, how they feel against your folds. He stops for a moment, meeting your gaze as he raises his head and smirks knowingly. “I know you do.” 

Before you can reply, his tongue’s inside you again, bringing you back to where you were before, over-stimulated and incomprehensible. He doesn’t stop until you cum again, until you’re screaming, the sound clawing its way up your throat. You’re almost bucking off his shoulders, but he holds you tight, only slowing when you start to babble, unable to form any coherent thought at all. 

He sets your hips down, your head lost in the aftershocks as your body buckles. The world spins when he sits you up only for you to collapse against his chest. It feels like you’ve been ripped open, torn to pieces, your edges frayed and worn. You’re waiting for him to piece you together again, just like you always do. 

A new thought hits you. It’s persistent, becoming clearer the more you breathe him in, get lost in the sensations he gives, the beat of his heart. 

What did he tell you about being torn apart?

_Blood magic._

It doesn’t feel like some fantastical concept. It’s real, just like only you and he are. And, for the first time, you feel like he’s as much yours as you are his. 

“I think I love you,” you whisper against his chest, dazed with the realization of it, how it makes the world take on a different colour. 

You don’t expect him to burst out laughing, for you to shake with him as he descends into a near fit, doubling over and holding your shoulders for support as it trails off into furious giggles. He tries to control himself, to be serious before another chuckle builds in his throat, and his hands go to either side of your head, smoothing your hair down as he searches your face. After meeting your eyes, the laughter dies. He’s serious now. Murderously so. You don’t understand why that makes your clit throb, your hole ache rather than leave you afraid. 

“We both know _that’s_ a bad idea,” he says, his voice dropping into a low snarl. 

There’s a warning in there, you’re pretty sure there's some buried threat, but with the small bit of energy you have left you grab him by the lapels of his jacket and kiss him. You think it’s because of surprise that he freezes, but you’re not certain. You still can’t catch your breath, your chest pressed to him like he’s the sole thing saving you from drowning. 

“I don’t care,” you breathe against his lips, ready to devour and be devoured. 

“ _Good_ ,” he growls, his fingers burying into the ample skin of your hips and hoisting you up, “'cause I don’t either.” 

He slams you against the wall, your head cracking on the concrete. You barely feel it, overcome with him pressing into you, the rush of him pulling down his slacks just enough to free his cock and push inside of you. You gasp and your vision goes white; air can’t find its way down your throat, your chest seizing at the sensation of it. 

_“Say it again,”_ he demands, pulling out until just the tip’s inside you. Knowing it’s foolish to force him, you make your eyes open so you can stare into the black depths of him, let him drag you down into the void. You followed him into the labyrinth, and you’ll follow him here, too. 

“I love you,” you rasp, your pant turning into a winded groan when he slams into you, your legs trembling around his hips as he pins you up by the grip on your thighs.

_“Again.”_

“I love you, J,” you groan, your throat beyond raw. But you don’t care about that, either. “I need you, _just you._ ” He’s slamming into you, your hips meeting the cement wall painfully, stretching you to the point it hurts, too. But you want it. You want all of it. _“I love you,”_ you cry, hands gripping his shoulders as you cum, your pussy convulsing around him, spasming to the point you feel it in your stomach, your heart. 

“Yes,” he snarls, all vicious anger and wrath, driving into you over and over again, “ _Yes, you do_.” 

He gives you no reprieve, no time to breathe or to reason, you just know this is like what he described before—about taking what hurts and wanting it, accepting every awful thing the person has to offer. 

You want him. You want all of him. Pleasure or pain, you want it as long as it comes from him. You've thought this before, but it feels like it's etched in your bones, a source of enlightenment. _Everything._

“Oh, _fuck!—”_ You’re so desperate, needy for him, unable to take much more before you blackout but never wanting this to end, for you to always be connected with him like this. You need him more than you’ve ever needed anything in your life. “Please, Daddy, please— _ah!_ —cum… cum inside me, please, J, _please_ —” 

He chuckles darkly, his breath warming your neck before his teeth find their favourite spot on your shoulder, his sharp canines preparing to pierce. “ _As you wish.”_

You feel the brimming warmth of him spilling himself inside you, flooding your walls and filling you as he bites down, driving himself deep into your core as he drains every last drop. You cum again just from that, your heart beating out of your chest and your skull and shoulder blooming with pain, but it still feels good, and you find that sensation from before— _transcendence_.

“Th-Thank you,” you gasp, hardly able to breathe. He’s holding you up, panting and sweating against you as he pulls his mouth from you, his tongue lapping up your blood. You try to match your breathing with his, forcing your body to relearn how to draw in air. 

“Hmm?” 

You realize you’re both covered in blood, that there’s a dead man on the floor not fifteen feet away, but you think of it all differently now. It’s another confirmation that you and he are your own solar system, his pull of gravity what keeps you from spinning off into nothing, from falling apart, being crushed under the weight of the guideless void. 

“It.. it’s just us now, right?” You’re not sure what you feel anymore, like your nerves have turned themselves off, but he’s your constant, your certainty. “Just you… you and me.” 

Why are your eyes so heavy? Why can’t you keep them open? You have more you want to tell him, more you want to thank him for, but your body finally quits on you, winding down until only faint whispers remain. 

“That’s right, babygirl,” he says in your ear, his nose nuzzling against your jaw, “Nothin’ matters but you and me.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, sooo... eight hours of near non-stop writing and intense sleep deprivation later, I hope y'all stuck with me and enjoyed this very, _very_ twisted mess of mine. 
> 
> Unfortunately... a lot of what the MC was talking about with her experiences is based on my own. Not entirely, but quite a bit of it. This is as much for me to get some catharsis after being years in denial rather than acting out in unhealthy ways like I used to, a sort of way to let go, I guess. I hope you know, however, that the irony of J's anger and a lot of what he says and does isn't lost on me - this is a _deeply_ unhealthy relationship and I don't advocate it for anyone IRL! 
> 
> Disclaimer: I took a lot of what I'd already written in my first longfic, _Everything Burns_ , in one particular torture scene in chapter 8 and reworked it for this because I did _hours_ of research back in 2018 when I started it and I had a pang to get into it again, lmao. 
> 
> Things are definitely gonna change between them now in future installments, but I won't expand too much on how that's gonna be just yet. I have ambitious aims to post an installment once a month, but I think it might be too much pressure for me to commit to that definitively given that I'm still working and generally struggling to stay healthy with COVID and being isolated and my depression being as bad as it is on occasion. I'll try my best, though. 💖
> 
> Thank you, everyone, who's taken the time to read my stories and to reach out and comment. You all mean the world to me, and I owe you everything. I know the content I cover can be hard for most folks to read through, and I appreciate you giving my stories a shot. Thank you💖


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